


Snipptes of Severitus

by TayyibesTeaTutorials



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Adoption, Bad Things Happen Bingo, Ficlets, Gen, Gen Work, Not Beta Read, Severitus, Severitus | Severus Snape is Harry Potter's Parent, Severus loves his son, and Harry loves his father, one shots, prompts, sxvxrxssnape's Snapetober 2020
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-16
Updated: 2021-01-26
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:15:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 6,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27588002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TayyibesTeaTutorials/pseuds/TayyibesTeaTutorials
Summary: Snippets of Severitus is a collection of severitus fics I've written that I decided to collect in one work. Each chapter will have a diffrent story, accompanied by a summary.Enjoy.
Relationships: Harry Potter & Severus Snape
Comments: 31
Kudos: 37





	1. Snapetober Day #4 - Exhausted

**Author's Note:**

> For Snapetober day #4 - Exhaustion.
> 
> Where Snape deserves somone that loves him, and Harry doesn't mind.

It weighs down on days where the students’ brews are particularly bad, or when he catches Harry doing something dangerous.

Which is far more often than Snape would prefer.

A wilting shadow after every sleep, feeding on the nights he’s wasted being awake, relishing from the hours gone without rest.

And when he’s alone, safe in his quarters from the eyes that are willingly concerned, he lets it strengthen its hold.

Just one more step, so very close to the bed. Naked feet staggering shamelessly on the bare floors.

He falls, this time. He expects a visit to Madam Promfrey the next morning.

Somehow, Harry is there. Away from the feast, ignoring Snape’s request.

“Madam Promfrey will kill us both, if you hit your head,” he says, a hint of…concern in his voice behind the humour, “I still have an evil wizard to defeat, you know?”

“You shouldn’t mother your father,” he slurs, words lost like his thin frame under the blanket, “I’m the one… I look after…you…”

“And I make sure you survive the night,” Harry pulls the blanket under Snape’s chin, pulling the words from his mouth before he can speak with a kiss to his forehead, “Goodnight, dad. Until next time.”

The shadow sleep, until next time.


	2. Snapetober Day #5 - Sick/Fever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which taking care of your father is a very difficult job. Especially when he's sick.
> 
> Especially when he's Severus Snape.

Winter arrives with no regard and the sudden snow is thick on the grounds. 

The catsle stands almost abandonned this holiday, the withering ghosts keeping the hallways alive with their presence. 

Almost abandonned. 

Snape rests the thought in some sealed place in his mind, pushed behind the essays he has to mark, the work he has to do and the running nose he is very persistent in ignoring. 

“You should rest,” Harry offers cautiously, hidden behind a book, staying with Snape in the castle almost abandonned. 

“I should work.”

Then there is silence, becuase Harry falls asleep not long after, and Snape would rather bring a blanket around his son’s shoulders than charm his feet to stay warm. 

So the next morning, when he wakes up with his throat swallon and a burning forehad, it comes with no surprise to Harry.

“I should work,” Snape argues, coughing and sneezing, ruthless shivers flicking throuh his form, “I need to work.”

“You should sleep,” Harry argues back, because Snape is all about love for others and the remains of a fading heart for himself.

That is loneliness, on days it’s painful.

Loathing, on days he’s alone.

But then come the rare days, there’s a faint hope that throbs in the heart he’s ignored for years. On the days the room is warm, the bed his soft and there is a cup of Minerva’s tea in his hands. The unruly strands on Harry’s head he can focus on tufting back, instead of the arching back of a knife.

“You should sleep, dad. Really really sleep, ‘cuz I’m tired too,” Harry says, curled up beside him because he can tell the day can change into one of the less better ones “I’ll change the rag in a few minutes.”

He doesn’t, and it’s no surprise Harry wakes up with a runny nose, either.


	3. Taking You With Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bad Things Happen Prompt #1
> 
> Severus Snape is given another chance. A chance he's willing to make his...
> 
> And a small child's.

It doesn’t feel right yet.

Jupiter is off balance, he can hear Trelawney screaming into his ear over breakfast, and the stars shine in all the wrong places.

“It doesn’t feel right, yet,” the Headmaster can agree, hand deftly picking up a sherbet lemon from the bowl that is always full, “Not yet.”

Severus denied it, of course, because the stars have never been right for him and Jupiter with all its glory is still a spec in the sky he’s eyes drown in, his soul to bask in…

“Give me a chance,” he asks at twenty three, chances as much as the years he’s lived shoved under the carpet, “Give me another chance.”

“What will you do with this chance, Severus?”

The bowl of sherbet lemons sits between them, overflowing with the sweets filled to the brim. They are sweet, sweet on the tongue. The tongue years of swallowed words have grown sour.

Tongue, gaze, smile, dreams… The task of listing things that haven’t rotten under his touch would be easier to accumulate. Spoiled secrets, ignored demons.

The chances shoved under the carpet, carless and above all afraid.

Because it was still him, under the mask he’s foolish self had carved as his own. Still him, with his second hand muggle shoes and the thrift store pants trimmed to fit him around the waist.

Severus wants another chance. The cast-off lives and chances rotting, ignored. So no, it doesn’t feel right yet.

Like the mask, Severus is willing to carve this chance until it does, just like he’d done then. Only this time, Minerva can scold him, the mother he found too late, the friend he accepted too slow. Minerva can scold him, support him and all the things Jupiter would rather not have her do.

The stars are wrong.

For Severus, they’ve been written that way.

“I will make it ours,” Severus dares to say, and the guilt of his heart weighs like the snow drawn paths of the woods. Heavy, terrifying, their road uncrossed. This, Severus knows. For this, he doesn’t make the chance his.

“For him, I will make it ours.”

“You’d wear your heart on your sleeve, Severus?”

Severus’ chuckle isn’t kind, and the bitter sound lingers in the air, the spell fuelled by a different sort of magic.

Regret, as emotions tend to be, come in muggle and wizard both.

Severus wears his heart on his sleeve, his love knows no bounds. That very love brings him to the Dursley’s one Christmas evening, the child pressed to his chest, snow on his cheeks. It’s what drives him to kiss Harry’s forehead, his tongue still bitter, the broken button on his sleeve still healing, his world still hating him from the shoes on his feet and the thoughts in his head.

“There’s a house by the coast, Harry,” he whispers to the child, gentler than what either of them are accustomed to, “Right by the sea, where the shells shine and the water ripples at your feet, despite who you may be. I’m going there.”

He lifts his coat, the apparition magic flowing around him, pulling the sleeping child closer, lips pressed above his hair.

“I’m taking you with me.”

Number 4 is silent once more that evening, unaware of what they’ve lost. Unwilling to learn the future to come.

That is fine with Severus. Because there is a house by the coast, and a (new) father is healing.

And the world continues.


	4. 5 Days in August

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are exactly five odd aspects of Severus’ life, with the only common attribute being the time they took place. (part 1)

There are exactly five odd aspects of Severus’ life, with the only common attribute being the time they took place.

Four of them he considers a tragedy. The last one remains a mystery he has yet to understand.

All the same, it starts in August.

## 5

In the summer of 1969, Severus escapes his house before the sun rises, arms full with heavy books with thick binds. Despite the season, there is a certain chill that hangs in the air, haunting the skin that’s exposed to the wind.

Severus doesn’t go back to get a jacket. Mostly, he lies to himself, it’s too late now.

Mostly he’d rather not go back at all.

Cokeworth is, unironically, is not worth much in Severus’ eyes, but if there is one thing he’s thankful to have, is that behind the rows of houses beneath a veil of thick smoke, there is some peace. Where, if one crosse the brick borders of the lines of houses, led to a clearing Severus learned to place his solace.

Other kids come here, of course. Mostly to play, they lie. Mostly to bother Severus, as though there’s something remarkably freakish about him.

There isn’t, Severus lies. There isn’t.

This one memory comes as the sun leaves. Pulling its rays harshly from the sky, an abandon dance while Severus has to walk back home, more than half of the books already done.

This one memory comes when he meets Lily, the sky a murky grey growing dull and they stare at each other for a long time, as though they this is how its meant to be.

“Are you alright?” asks Lily, and even years later, when Severus thinks about it in the depth of the night, he shakes his head, because he wouln’t shake it back then.

No. He really wasn’t alright.

## 4

Hogwarts, for all its glory, isn’t worth much either.

Dumbledore was a man Severus belived he would admire. Dumbledore was strong, Dumbledore was bloody amazing.

And Dumbledore, for all its glory, wasn’t worth much either, as Severus learns once again before the end of the first year.

“I don’t want to go back.”

“Mr Snape, no student is allowed to stay at Hogwarts in the summer.”

“I don’t want to go back. Please, I-” Severus bites the inside of his cheek, fumbles with his hands, and doesn’t care if he breaks Slytherin decorum, “Please don’t send me back.”

Dumbledore’s eyes twinkle, as they often do, as he smiles, and pulls out a bowl.

“Lemon Drop?”

That August, Dumbledore comes for a visit.

Severus expects its for him, and unapologetically, a grin does form on his lips. Hope does spread warm in his chest and he does rampage down the stairs, not caring for what his mother might say and throws himself out the backdoor.

Dumbledore smiles, and pats his shoulder.

“Good morning, Mr Snape. All well, I presume? Would you please direct me to Ms Lily’s home? I’m afraid I must have missed the Apparation address.”

Severus is numb as he leads him to the Evans. Numb as he receives a glare each from the family, except for Lily, and numb as Lily tells him that Dumbledore came to kindly ask Petunia to send the letters.

It’s because of the shock, Severus lies, and stops thinking of it right there.

## 3

The summer after fifth year, Severus wants to grow bold. Well, bold or stupid. There isn’t many lines to seperate them, these days. Perhaps there never were.

He fights with Lily in the compartment, because Severus had to admit that he was tired, so very tired to put up with Potter’s and Black’s bullying. Because Severus had to admit that the way things were going, he’d rather sit with Slytherin that put up with this at all. Lily leaves, slamming the door behind her after calling Severus selfish.

Selfish.

She’s lying, Severus tells himself, and continues to tell himself as the train passes his station and pulls into King’s Cross, as he treads the platform after everyone leaves, as he steps out the station and into the streets of London.

She’s lying, but Severus can’t bring himself to believe it.

He does find work for the summer, fortunatly, with a war vetran who can’t look after himself, least the people around him, but offers Severus a roof over his head and two meals a day if he helps him through the summer.

Severus agrees, though its not much, and learns nothing from the man until its time to leave.

“Careful, young man. Who your mind, heart and money lingers with is that you love.”

Severus forgets the words as soon as he’s back in the Hogwarts Express, alone, and Lily cames barging in, a smile on her face.

“Hey,” she smiles, siting beside him, “How was your summer? I din’t see you much.”

Severus doesn’t think he’s grown bold at all.

## 2

The summer after his sixth has to be the worst.

Lily is gone.

Eileen is dead.

Severus almost died.

Tobias kicks him out the the minute Severus blocks his belt.

Severus leaves, no trunk, only wand, and finds his way in the house of two fellow Slytherins, who open the door with much surprise, “Severus?”

“Narcissa, Lucius,” Severus says, his hair and clothes wet from the rain, “I need your help.”

## 1

August 1980 and Severus agrees to Dumbledore’s wishes.

August 1980, and Severus trusts Dumbledore.

October 31, 1981, and Voldemort is gone.

And inside, beside a crying child, so is Lily. Crumpled in a heap, empty eyed.

There isn’t any words to escribe grief.

Severus lives through it, all the same. He cries as the boy cries behind him, screams and the boy screams alongside him. And when no amount of tears bring Lily back, Severus stands, whips his wand out and is about to hex the boy when he notices the eyes.

The hand falters. With a gasp, Severus pockets his wand, fingers pinching his nose because he was just about to hex Harry Potter. Harry Potter.

There is a sound from downstairs. Shouts and a crashing door, and before Severus can think, he’s scooped the boy in his arms and soon enough, somewhere far, far away.

## 0

There are exactly five odd aspects of Severus’ life, with the only common attribute being the time they took place.

Four of them he considers a tragedy. The last one remains a mystery he has yet to understand.

They’re not necessarily in that order.


	5. 3 Days in September

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are exactly five odd aspects of Severus’ life, with the only common attribute being the time they took place.
> 
> And of course, Harry Potter. (part 2 -end)

There are exactly five odd aspects of Severus’ life, with the only common attribute being the time they took place.

And of course, Harry Potter

The world is leaked of colour, and the birds dared not sing the morning of his arrival to the cottage so, so far away. Blissfully ignorant, away from the world.

Harry Potter deprives him from the mercy of sleep with powerful wails. Hammering noises, all in his skull. Pulling him to the couch he’d improvised into a crib, his surroundings a swirl of muddy colour.

Harry Potter doesn’t smile as Severus hovers over him, black-clad and a deathly sight. Harry Potter doesn’t smile as the man, so clearly dead with measly strings holding him up lifts the child, patting his back. Nervous. Afraid, almost dead.

Harry Potter smiles.

And Severus Snape is somewhat alive.

## 3.

A year later, the world catches up with him with a knock on his door and a box of chocolates at hand.

Albus Dumbledore’s eyes have not lost their twinkle, and they shine like stars lost in the black, dark ocean tides.

The door is caught with a maroon boot wedged between the frame, and Dumbledore utters no sound as Severus’ works to keep it close.

“You’ve been missed, my boy.”

“I’m far too old to believe such lies,” Severus says through his hand, a bundle of life asleep in his arms, away from the world. Away from those eyes, “Leave, Headmaster. I fear my life will be much to exhausting, with you as a friend.”

“However, you’d rather have me as an enemy?” Dumbledore asks, the door wedged open, the wand pointed at his face dismissed with a humourous lift of brows, “I have cleared your name, much long ago.”

“Autumn has come again, once too soon,” Severus replies, long fingers ushering the boy down, “The leaves are scarlet once more. I haven’t missed a thing.”

“Won’t you, when the time comes for the child to leave?”

He doesn’t admit it. He won’t think it. The world spins once more, faster. Far more cruel. A wind picks up his hair, smelling of damp soil, and Snape coaxes the boy to ease.

“It’s not time.”

“One day, it will.”

“Bridges, Headmaster. I’d rather cross them when they river comes to pass.”

“The river is not yours to control, Severus. Heed me, and the boy will be safe. And-” he smiles at the boy, so very warm, so very Severus’, “With you.”

The world spins again, faster. Cruel. Severus lowers his wand, the lights from the setting sun dim from the clouds so very his mood, “Have I your oath?”

Dumbledore’s eyes lift to the sky, eyes brimmed with light, hidden like the sun behind a veil of a smile, “You have my honour.”

## 2.

There are no nightmares here. No screams, no shouts. No life other than the ones that truly matter. A boy grows, loved. A boy grows, kind. A boy grows, strong. And so does a father.

The leaves are orange, and the day after his son’s birthday, Severus balances the memories among his words, a terrible scrawl that jars the pages. Black, illegible. A complete history, prepared for the archives.

“Are you coming, dad?” the boy asks, eyes kind. Eyes green. The notebook in Severus’ hands close, a gentle thud in the brewing storm patterning against the glass. Like the rain, falls Severus’ frown, robes billowing like restless mist.

“I’m coming, son.”

The history, the memories all slip past. No ashes bring them back this time.

Severus smiles, truly smiles, thin fingers tufting black hair out of kind eyes.

“I’m coming, Harry.”

## 1.

“What if I’m in Gryffindor. Or Ravenclaw. Or Hufflepuff!”

“A significant addition, I don’t doubt, to each house.”

“I want to be in Slytherin.”

“And I-” Severus places a hand on his son’s shoulder, a gentle squeeze within his grasp, “-Want the best for you. As all fathers should.”

“You’re not my father, dad,” Harry says, a smile tugging on his lips, hands on his father’s hands as to ease him from the painful crease on his lips, “Not just my father. You’re my everything. I want to make you proud.”

Severus smiles, truly smiles, heart at ease, no strings to pull it away, “You already have.”

“Promise me you’ll be there, though. Not that I’m scared… just so you can see,” on emphasis, a small, tiny finger lifts from his robe sleeves, held up between father and son, “Promise me, that you’ll be there, dad.”

Severus’ finger coils around his son’s, smile not faltering.

“Always.”

## 0.

A boy grows, kind, strong, loved. A father grows with him, like leaves in September, thrice and many more. Only and always together.


	6. The Wish Jar (pt 1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bad Things Happen Bingo #3 - Cry into Chest
> 
> Harry gets hit with a curse that makes him live his worse fear. One he needs to get out himself. Only problem? It's curse-Severus trying to make sure he never wakes up.

Harry keeps the wishing jar closed. 

He’s kept it closed all this time, under loose floorboard, charmed wardrobes and the little invisibility cloak he hasn’t touched since-

When his eyes close, the tears slip past anyway, tearing down the wish he was folding in his hand. The ink is smudged, the words a blur and the moving figures of the Daily Prophet scatter to get away from the spreading water and suddenly he’s young. Too young to be here, stuck in a cupboard, like today folding wish stars out of the newspapers Aunt Petunia because he’s not allowed the colorful paper like the rest of the class.

Somehow, he's young again, and the world is too big for those folded stars he’s made his wishes.

Summer rain hits the open cottage window, the remaining specs of light collecting on the dusty floors. The room smells of old wood and wet soil, used books spread on the floor like fallen leaves and the sea is gentle against the beach sand when he can’t afford to be gentle with himself. 

Snape smiled from the corner of the room, only visible to Harry’s eye.

Another star drops to the floor, and the counter he’s set clicks into 690, flashing green and bright. 

“You want to get out.”

“I know.”

“Do you?” Snape says, walking towards him in the form of a haze, no sound from his steps. He presses a hand to his shoulder, like the touch of a breeze in summer. A brush, a thin string of hold that made you want more of that relief. 

The last strips of sunlight were swept clean from the floor, retreating back out the window, the rain too cold now that the sun had sunk. Gone. 

Snape is here.

Snape is dead.

“Harry, we can leave,” Snape says, and Harry turned around, and Snape followed, down on one knee, both hands on his shoulders, “Don’t you want to leave?”

“I want to leave this place,” Harry snaps, trying to push Snape away. His hands dives into where Snape’s shoulder is meant to be, marking a hole and chilling his skin. Curse-Snape raises a brow, brushing his shoulder, and stepping around him again.

“Don’t you see, Harry? You’re not happy. You’ve never been happy.”

The newspaper tears easily between Harry’s fingers, a thin stripe joining the line of nine others. Then, Harry starts folding, and he is young again. Working on the little stars without the light of morning, the dim flashlight lighting his folds. And when the flashlight dies, he needs no light to path the way.

Knot, fold, punch, drop.

Knot, fold, punch, drop.

Knot, fold, punch-

His hand stills at the hand brushing his hair back, a free hand messaging his shoulder. Harry closes his eyes, and continues like that, the click of the counter the only noise disturbing the rain.

Knot, fold, punch, drop.

And Snape presses a kiss to his forehead, so like the Sunday afternoons warm in the dungeon, when the future feels like a bargain of fate Harry had no hope of surviving. It’s enough for Harry to cut his finger on the page, the scar healing without giving the blood enough time to collect.

There is no pain.

Snape chuckles beside his ear, “See, Harry? There’s no pain here. No sadness. No Dark Lord. We’re here. I’m here and I am not dead.”

“You... you were dead?” Harry’s whisper is a notch above pained, a notch below confusion. The invisibility cloak sits in the closet, he knows, hiding and Harry can’t seem to remember why. 

“I was, I still am, where the world is cruel and fate won’t ask for your consent when they come to play,” the words hang between them and the 695th star, sitting idly in the palm of Harry’s right hand, where there had never been any scar. 

“Where Cedric dies. Sirius dies. Where I die. Do you want to go there, Harry?” 

No. Harry doesn’t want to go there. He turns around. So does Snape.

There’s a smile on his face that Harry hadn’t seen before, Snape’s hand coming to brush the side of Harry’s face, no longer stained, his skin healthy. Eyes bright. Hair clean. The shadows under his eyes are gone, and his body is no longer the skeletal figure Harry for some reason remembers.

And when he leans into Snape’s chest, the tears already streaming from his face, Snape’s lean fingers truffle the hair that falls on that spot of his forehead where there had never been a scar. 

“Three days,” Harry manages between his sobs, breathing in the smell of Snape’s robes that smell the sea, “Three days, and I will decide.”

“Of course, Harry,” Snape whispers, drawiıng his arms around him, smiling into his hair, “Of course, son.”


	7. The Wish Jar (pt 2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> BTHB #4 - Falling Through the Ice
> 
> It's winter when Harry finally falls through the ice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I aoologise for leaving in such a horrible cliffhanger. I hope you enjoy this one though :)

It’s the first day.

And in the cottage near the sea, there is no cold and emotions weighing him down. The stars sit alone in his room, three abandoned stripes lifting up and down with the gentle wind that blows inside. 

The sea, warm against Harry’s feet, smells fresh and exactly what he imagines it to smell like. Lapping against the thin, pale sand; an ironed sheet stretching further than the eye can see, wrapping around the sun when it’s time for it to rest.

Harry feels home. 

Snape is waiting for him in the kitchen before dinner, and Harry can’t seem to remember why he thought Snape as dead. The knife held between his slender fingers chop down on the carrots, his eye meeting Harry’s when he walks in, cuffs folded up his scrawny legs, socks and shoes at hand.

“Wash your feet first,” Snape says, nodding towards the bathroom.

There is no dirt to wash off his feet, but Harry washes them anyway, and dries them on towels smelling of vanilla, seemingly knit from the clouds and soft silk. 

It’s the first day, and Snape teaches him how to cook, a hand over Harry’s knife wielding fingers, holding them steady. Harry doesn’t have the heart to tell Snape he knows how to cook when Snape compliments him, not able to hold in the smile when he gently ruffles his hair. 

It’s the first day, and the food tastes like contentment gift wrapped into an envelope, sealed with the warm morning sun. With every book Harry reads, a new one sits in its place the next time his eyes land on it, the spine old with the years of collected dust. 

He wonders between hazy thoughts if they ever talked like the way there are now, that first night. Window open, the delicate wind picking up the light blue curtains, words comfortably exchanged. Laughter, confessions. The topics circulating between memories they have shared, and the memories they have yet to make.

Harry wonders why he ever thought about odd names like Hermione, Ron and Hogwarts when Snape helped him sleep into warm dreams, no potion, no magic needed. Just his gentle voice, leaving Harry’s thoughts wandering into warm places, a warm sleep.

Here is warmth, and here Harry sleeps. 

It’s the second day, and winter doesn’t hurt. Harry wakes up to a cold winter morning, and though the crunching snow seeps between his toes, a cool shiver shooting up his spine, it’s just a feeble touch on his bare skin, like those of soft feathers. It’s cold, the breakfast is warm and Snape’s hot cocoa warms his fingers, just as Snape’s hand warms the hair he’s touched, and the hand-knit blanket warms his shoulders. 

“The sea must be frozen.”

“Wasn’t it always frozen?” 

Snape’s thin hides behind his hair, his long fingers placing another cup on the table for the warmth to spread inside of Harry, “Have you ever ice skated?” 

The cup’s brim brushes his lip, and the warmth pauses. He thinks he hasn’t, a door slammed to his face when he dared ask for it. But Snape looks at him with dark eyes bright with curiosity, helping Harry lift the cup for a sip, “I think that’s a no.”

“Will you teach me?” 

Snape tilts his head with a smile, and the snow is not cold when they step out in their clothes sewn with warm wool, with warm love. Snape takes his hand, helps him past the sand and past the snow. Harry’s blades shake, and so does Harry, clinging madly on Snape’s arm lest he fall. 

He doesn’t, and their laughter is a lonely one, the only for miles. Their laughter is a happy one, the only one that carries like the wind; through the trees, through their leaves. A drop of summer while the world rests, a sweet dream as spring sleeps under heavy, cold sheets. The ice creaks seldom, and when it does, it’s to them racing, sometimes almost falling, sometimes almost winning. 

“You have skated before.”

“Would I lie to you?”

Snape brushes the snow from his hair, rolling his eyes, his long coat flying around him while he stops just in front of Harry, blades skidding, “A winter has passed.”

The sun is veiled silently behind white clouds, and Harry agrees, “A winter has passed.”

“And you have yet to call me your father.”

When Harry turns to face Snape, it’s to painful eyes with a crease on the skin to mark their sorrow. He wants to argue, but the guilt weighs like heavy blankets of snow, freezing to the touch, death to sleep under.

“I’m sorry,” he reaches out a hand, before the tears can mark their will, “I’m sorry, dad.”

Harry hears the ice creak, and the smile on Snape’s lips turn oh so quickly into a frown. 

The water is cold, and the world is dark as Harry falls through the ice.

The world is cold.

And then, the world is no more


	8. The Wish Jar (pt 3)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> BDHB #5 - Sturggling Against the Caretaker

Spring arrives as Harry opens his eyes, the patrichor of the April showers mixing with the cherry blossoms. Strange. Harry cannot remember cherry blossoms at Hogwarts, or spring showers being so delicate. 

When he turns around, head dipping down on the silk sheets, his eye catches the crack between in the wardrobe, a glint of light in the murky darkness. 

Oddly enough, he feels a voice urge him towards it, whispering incomprehensible words hidden behind a wall of water. Harry struggled to a stand, and limps towards the window, with each step surging delicate strands of pain up his leg.

Now why on earth would his leg hurt?

The window struggles, wrenched and stubborn. Harry has to go save his nails from breaking, curling his hands into fists. And if possible, the smell is somehow stronger. Ruthless. A perfumed poison, cheap like the ones in Uncle Vernon’s car. 

Uncle Vernon’s...car?

Harry’s head spins, and the pain jolting up his leg is more profound. The glint calls for him, growing brighter. Brighter. Like a wishing star, the single hope he’s collected in the palm of his hand when the nights grow darker and longer. 

“Wishing star,” Harry repeats the words, and it doesn’t matter how much his leg hurts or how fast he spins; because the wardrobe door is wrenched open and from under a familiar cut of fabric glints a jar of stars, in reds, blues, black and white newspaper folds. Harry cries out when he lifts the jar up, collapsing on the floor with it pulled against his chest.

Following his crash comes another from the other side of the door, Snape; alive and frantic, comes hurling towards the room, hair tied up like Harry had recommended he do.

...Alive and frantic?

Since when was Snape dead?

“Harry, oh thank Merlin you’re awake,” Snape’s voice is honeyed and concerned, no different than the cheap smell of the cherry blossoms; overbearing like the scents clouding Professor Trelawney’s classroom.

Harry scurries away when Snape steps forward, almost falling when he stands up.

“Harry, what’s wrong?” Snape asks, a hand brushing Harry’s hair, feeling his forehead. Harry is quick to slap it away, though, shaking his head with wide eyes. He places the jar on the desk of the room, starting to turn drawer after drawer out to find the remaining of the stars.

The stars he doesn’t remember how he learnt about. 

“Harry,” Snape tries to touch him again, hurt creasing the lines of his face when Harry flinches away, growling, “Where are my stars?”

“Harry —” 

“I said where are my stars!” Harry screams without looking, picking up the jar and starting to move towards the living room, hands shaking whale he throws open books and ornaments, angrily ripping out pages when new books arrive in the place of others.

“I’m not playing your games anymore!” Harry screams, throwing books behind him towards where he assumed Snape is standing, breaking the glass decorations as he clumsily runs towards the kitchen and the bathroom, giving it the same treatment.

Snape only watches, a concerned frown on his face, and doesn’t keep Harry from messing up his room and laboratory. Harry only grows relentless with each fruitless search, the sky seemingly growing brighter and warmer to oppose his own emotions. 

When he finds no stars, the pain no longer accepts, pricks and bites piercing his leg as he collapses, jar still held towards his chest. This time, without a word is how Snape approaches him, a finger to wipe away the tears wetting the aged, old jelly jar in his hands.

“Why would you need stars, son?” Snape whispers, and there is also a tear in his cheek, meeting Harry’s ones down on the jar, “I thought we had gone over this, Harry?”

“We went over nothing,” Harry spits out, glaring with the last effort he still had, “I need those stars, and you will give it to me.”

“You’re asking me to kill you?”

“I’m asking —, no, I’m telling you to free me.”

“And what’s the difference if the only freedom the world will give you is when you no longer breathe?”

The glare falls from Harry’s eyes, and he has no words when Snape continues, his arms coming around Harry’s shoulders, “Tell me I’m wrong, I plead of you. Tell me that, when you leave, freedom is what you leave to, and not to what fate has prepared you for you at the end of a killing wand.”

“You think I don’t know that!” Harry shouts, pushing away Snape’s hands and struggling to a stand, “You think I’m not terrified? You think I’m not sick to my stomach every time I think about the death I’ve cost? You think I don’t have a breakdown every time I imagine people dying because of me?”

“Of course I know, son,” Snape cries, voice laced with the panging hurt, genuine sorrow curved into the letter, “Of course I do! Why do you think I wish you’d stay, where spring is warm and winter is warmer. Where we are together, and you can forget the world and the fate you weren’t even meant to be a part of.”

“If I forget — ” Harry wipes his tears harshly, blinking the tears away “ — If I forget, I won’t be me.”

“You will be free… free with me.”

Harry chuckles, another tear sliding down the jam jar, “You think I don’t want that? To die? To leave everything and be happy?”

“And you can,” a smile cracks open on Snape’s lips, wide and ugly, “You can, and you may. You’ll have everything and — ”

“I’m sorry,” Harry whispered, taking a step back, closing his eyes at the satisfying sound of creaking floorboards. He doesn’t pick it up right away, and instead, he walks to the living room, where Snape always keeps a newspaper on the black armchair. Straps of paper come loose freely, the ritual of knot, punch, fold and drop earning Harry another five stars, ones he keeps safe in his pockets. 

Snape watches from the doorway.

“Figuring it out is the easy part,” he says in a voice that isn’t quite his, a curve of anger on the brim, “Summer will come and go by the time you finish a thousand.”

“Summer has already come,” Harry says, ducking under his arm. The floorboard comes loose just as easy as the straps of paper, and Harry has jars of 995 little stars. The furious expression on Snape’s face isn't quite his, either; a dark shadow to the edge of his scowl, a reflection of fear to the eyes he’s pulled to a glare, “You’re losing a chance. The man you call father is doomed to die, Harry Potter, just like you. You could have had it all.”

“And could you?” Harry says when the sun begins to set, the last day of August. Four jars all crash down, and the pain is stronger; the light of the sun burning his skin. Nothing happens, and curse-Snape grins; ugly and with ashen teeth.

“Summer is leaving.”

“And so am I,” Harry says, tears still falling. He lifts the stars from his pocket, and they fall one by one, and this time the sun won’t burn the wishes that were never its.

“You won’t get another summer, Harry Potter,” the shadow hisses, distraught between shapes Harry has met and those he hasn’t, “Your world has no summer! The winter always lasts, and there is no escape from pain.”

“That’s the beauty of love, dad,” Harry says barely above a whisper as the last star falls, seconds before the last light of the hot August day, “Love is always, no matter the winters it has to pass.”

The world spins, and so does Harry. A cloud of smoke, ash and pain all enveloping him like a storm. From the ashes and the flames, Harry sees Snape, his blood ruling scresma mixing into the storm.

Summer leaves, and before Harry does too, his words remain.

“Thank you, dad.”

And then, summer is no more. 

*

Summer is no more when Harry wakes up either, screaming and wet with tears and sweat. 

There are sounds, there are always sounds, but somehow they are stronger, familiar. The ones that aren’t the soft touches from a dream he can’t remember, but the ones found in concern, ones human. 

Ones alive.

Harry gasps for air, shooting from the bed, eyes wide and screaming.

“Dad! DAD! Please dad, PLEASE! DAD!”

Madam Pomfrey wrestles him to lie down, and so does Ron; they’re trying to tell him something, while Professor Pomrey tries to push something down his throat.

That’s when Snape arrives, looking as through he’d suffered a hundred years of misery, suffering and disease. He takes Harry from the pair of arms, curling his arms around him instead, protective and afraid. 

Snape isn’t affectionate. Snape isn’t the one to show his love for the world to see.

Neither Snape or Harry mind when he presses a kiss to Harry’s forehead, a few tears dripping down on Harry’s hairline.

That’s when Harry finally accepts the Calming Draught.

And that is when Harry finally, truly sleeps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Final chapter next week, hopefully. In the meantime, enjoy this angst :)


	9. The Wish Jar (final)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I apologise for the late chapter.

Harry Potter-Snape opens his eyes to an unkind world.

The fire, too hot, burns him under the heavy blankets; and the rain, too loud, drums against the window.

The world was -is- unkind.

Harry sighs, resting his head on the too-soft pillow, weighed under the too-warm sheets. 

"Harry," a voice from the doorway sings. Tired, relieved. A thousand emotions lost in a storm. Harry says 'sings', and the thought humours him into a smile, urging his eyes open because he is here.

He is home.

Severus rarely breaks decorum. In fact, he makes it quite clear it's something that he doesn't do. 

You don't wear your heart on your sleeve, when everything is fair in war. 

And nothing is fair in love. 

The shaking hands cradling his cheek tell a different story. The trembling fingers through his hair paint a million memories Harry didn't need to be awake to experience. 

The world is too warm. 

And for a stubborn, painful moment… it is a bit less unkind.

"I've left," says Harry, his voice allowing horse whispers Severus hushes with words that are gentler than the world had been to him, "I've left, and I don't know what to say."

"An apology," Severus kisses the crown of his head, above the scar that tied their futures, "For putting me through that misery."

Harry chuckles, cheeks dusted warmer than the fire as Severus' hands lift him from the sofa. The cold embraces him first. 

And then the only kindness in this unjust world.

His father is old. The years have settled on his shoulders, mindless of what they could carry. His father is old, not because he's spent years others have not, but because while others had their chance to grow up… Severus Snape was left to grow old. 

His father is old.

And he smells of hours shut in his apothecary, herbs and fumes of potions marking his scent. 

"I dreamt," Harry says again, settling his chin on Severus' shoulder. Dreamt is the start of the sentence, because the only difference between a dream and nightmare is not what you see, but how you see it. 

He has dreamt, because it is the most bittersweet sleep he has the curse to wake up from. 

"I dreamt we were happy, you know. Truly happy, without worry."

"Are we not happy?" Severus asks, knowing the answer. Silence clogs Harry's throat, suffocating him with the heavy words his heart burdens. He doesn't speak.

And so he cries.

Crying, easier, brings them closer. As fighters. As a family. As to souls matched by a hand they both exhaust their lives to end. 

"I never got to say goodbye," says Harry, because they're the truth, the only words his mind wants to remember.

"And I can give you a better world than dreams," says his father, lips touching the side of his head, because it is also the truth.

Because it is a promise.


End file.
